Rip Current
by Suk-fong
Summary: rip current n. A strong, narrow surface current that flows rapidly away from the shore, returning the water carried landward by waves. (Welcome to the 70th Annual Hunger Games)
1. The Reaping

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: Me. I wanted this.  
**notes**: I have gotten so tired of watching people make Annie appear weak, like she won her Games by chance. And even though I am so bad at canon era fics, because they make me sad, I just could not sit here and read stuff where Annie is so incapable of taking care of herself, or functioning without Finnick. So, I have decided to write how I think Annie's Games happened.

**title**: Rip Current  
**summary**:

rip current

_n._

A strong, narrow surface current that flows rapidly away from the shore, returning the water carried landward by waves.

Welcome to the 70_th_ Hunger Games.

**chapter:**1/7

* * *

Every child in Fourth starts training at the age of five; the training of course is varied by economic means, location and other variables that are personal. But the bottom line is: no child goes into the Arena without some knowledge of how to survive-at least past the Cornucopia.

Annie Cresta was from the northern most tip of Fourth, she could see mountains, and the water in the ocean was cold. They had snow, not like those in the south. Her family built ships, ones that could stand upright in the storm, sturdy ones. The name Cresta was renowned for the sturdiness of their products, and how well they survive the storms.

Annie was also the only child of Jonah Cresta, his wife dying in childbirth and the man, no older than twenty-three had been at loss as to what to do with this new born babe. As such, he began her training earlier than most.

But it was for nothing, his wife's pregnancy had been a hard one, and his daughter born too soon. She was a small girl, undersized but never hungry and never wanting for nothing, and a vast thirst for knowledge. But her small size made her combat skills weak; she was often tossed to the ground by older students, and friends. It was quite clear from the beginning Annie Cresta was not a physical victor.

But it was also abundantly clear that people liked Annie Cresta, whether it was pity for the slight girl who looked like at any moment the waves would drag her out to sea; or her soft, sweet polite disposition that made people want to help her, it was unclear.

But no one in the north could find one bad thing to say about the quiet girl with dark waves of hair.

* * *

Two years ago, was the first year she was eligible for the Reaping. It was with bated breath Jonah watched from where he could, seeing the dark waves combed neatly as she was wont to do in the centre of the first row. Her white blouse, brand new, was brighter than the girl to the left, whose skin was tanned so dark, and her hair lightened by the sun. Jonah figured that girl was from the South, working on a rig to meet the capital quota.

The names were drawn, two whom Jonah never knew, the girl, Thames Martin, was sixteen and walked like a mythical siren. The boy, Barney Dawson he read later, was six weeks from eighteen, and the fury he wore on his face would scare Storms.

Thames died seventh, while Barney was the third.

A year passed, and Annie's training continued. Her teachers told Jonah of how smart Annie was, how she thought of strategies outside of what they thought of, how before any activity they had to be thorough and exhaustive of all the rules, and they had to say rules instead of guidelines. Once the rules were outlined, Annie followed them to a "T", but until then, if it was not explicitly stated, she would ignore them.

He didn't know what to say about that, but when he asked her that night at dinner, Annie looked at him, smiling softly as if she was sharing a private joke.

'If there's no rules for it that means no one has ever done it before-or they think no one would ever do it.' She told him, 'It's kind of neat being the first one to do something no one thinks can be done. And besides if it's not written down, it doesn't count right?'

Jonah was taken aback as his own words, when regarding to shipping contracts are parroted back to him, in a very different context.

From a very young age he had told Annie the importance of having anything of importance, a job contract, and a marriage, any of the sorts of things that were binding written down and agreed upon by all the parties and signed by everyone involved in front of witnesses, otherwise one could say it never happened.

It was the second year that they must go down to the central coast, and the second year Jonah must stand in the line of family members, sweating bullets and trying to decide which was worse, waiting to be reaped, or watching his only child wait to be reaped. There is no contest, the jackhammer heartbeat, the dry mouth and the prayers sent to the old gods that no one worships anymore are more than enough proof, that the tiny girl, slowly getting dwarfed by girls with more muscles, and tanned lines who hold themselves like fighters, is his life line.

When the Capitol representative, with hair the colour of scarlet skies that no sailor wants in the morning reached into the large glass goblet and the slip of paper, _Pacifica Scott_, is read, Jonah felt his heartbeat slow down.

Pacifica Scott is seventeen, with long red hair and skin that freckled instead of tanned, and she was crying when she approached the podium. You could train every day of your life, but still walking to your almost assured death could tear you apart.

The boy, Finnick Odair, was tall for fourteen and was good looking in a way that hurt his heart.

Beauty in one's face, like the way his was, and the way he wore it so self-assuredly, like an armour would only hurt him when it faded.

Finnick Odair had a small smirk on his face, like this was all a game. Jonah waited for a volunteer, but it looked like no one was willing to die for Finnick Odair.

Pacifica died two days in, her neck snapped by the male tribute from One.

Finnick Odair won; the youngest ever at fourteen.

Jonah was with Annie when Finnick Odair was announced the Victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games. She was frowning slightly, and Jonah asked her why.

'He was first.' His daughter said simply, and Jonah was once again taken aback at what she said.

He had half a mind to shake her, and scream if she was planning on volunteering to be the youngest victor ever. He never asked, the answer in his daughter's odd mind scared him.

* * *

With the third year, he can see Finnick Odair lounging on the stage, the first Victor in almost twenty-years, but by no means their first or only, His shirt was not fully done up, and Jonah watched most of the girls, and some of the woman, and a few men straining their necks to get a full look. His eyes flickered to Annie, whom he couldn't truly see in the third row, but from the top of her head, he could see Annie drawing designs in the dirt with the toe of her shoe.

Matilda Starr, an eighteen year old with long willowy blonde hair is called, and she walks to the stage with an exaggerated sway of her hips, that Jonah believed was to draw Finnick's attention, and Matilda is rewarded with one eyebrow raised. The boy, Lucas Crust, was sixteen and he stomped to the stage.

Both were killed in the Cornucopia, the first time in years that both Fourth tributes were killed on the first day.

Annie was fifteen, and was growing into a subtle understated beauty, her hair darkening in the sun, and the waves relaxing; and Jonah began to worry more about boys, than the Hunger Games, and the tributes, a seventeen year old girl, Sunami with eyes that brought storms who bleed out slowly, and George Cane who was torn apart by mutts, were given a proper burial.

The fifth year they go to the Capitol, Annie was hidden by lines of girls behind her, and Jonah began to think hopefully. He is rewarded when a twelve year old girl, Britta Jones is called out, and there is a kerfuffle in the lines, which made his blood run cold when he thought Annie would volunteer, no one did. Britta Jones died fourth. Her partner Mike Springs died eighth.

Seventeen was close, and Annie was far from his views. She was not picked, and instead he had to watch her friend, Rosa Fien walk to the stage. The boy, Jake Steam was sixteen.

Jonah watched his daughter watch Rosa's games fanatically, she was murmuring under her breathe, her eyes never leaving the screen, as if she was forcing it to imprint perfectly, into her mind. When Rosa died, sixth, Annie wept, and Jonah thought the obsessive nature would end.

He was wrong, and he watched his daughter go through book after book, making lists and writing notes that he could never understand. She poured through the rules, and asked to go down to the central coast to look at past games.

Jonah wanted to stop her, for she was attracting attention. Sweet Annie Cresta, her green eyes never showing what she thought, and her dark waves organized and clean was sailing up the coast, archiving information of the Old Games, even going up to the Victor's Warf, and asking the Victors, the ones who would speak to her about their games.

It took Jonah a few weeks, to see what his daughter was doing. She was gathering information, trying to validate Rosa's death. He let her be, everyone mourns in their own way.

* * *

On the final year, Annie wears a brand new blouse, still brighter than the girls she stood beside, and still far paler than the girls who worked on the docks, or made nets to catch the fish. Jonah notes now Annie's pale skin and calloused-free palms would never be able to hold a knife like the other girls. Annie had never gutted a fish, nor caught one without sending it back.

In the Arena, she would die. Jonah has had this thought before, but it is too horrifying so he sent it back to the recedes of his mind, never gone, just lurking. She would never be a physical Victor.

Her name is called, and it feels like his legs give way. Jonah is supported by the men surrounding him, pitying him as they watch Annie walk reservedly, each foot fall measured and her clear green eyes unreadable to the platform.

Jonah does not even know who her district partner is, as it feels like all his senses have been cut off if it is not Annie.

Numbly he is ushered through the crowd of people who hold a mixture of emotions on their face, pity for his loss, for Annie will not survive, and thankfulness for Annie's death keeps their children alive and in their arms for a year longer.

When he's let in to see her, the strength of his legs re gone again and he collapses on the floor and cries. Annie who had been looking out the window, comes to him and wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him close.

'Don't worry Papa.' She says smoothly, as if she has been saying these words for years in her mind to achieve the desired effect of calming him down. 'It's just a game, and all games have rules.'

Jonah holds her closer.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading! I hope you like my retelling of Annie's Games, one where she is not weak or dependent on Finnick or winning by chance. Because no one wins the Games by accident.

My tumblr is seevikifangirl, and if you have any questions, I am more than happy to answer them there!


	2. The Train

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: Me. I wanted this.  
**notes**: Thank you for all the positive response! All the chapters are relatively short, so this makes it much easier to write! Thank you to everyone who has put this in their favourites and alerts, it really makes me happy.

If you want to see more of this universe, including a fanmix, and extra stories please check out .com (slash) storyextra

**title**: Rip Current  
**summary**:

rip current

_n._

A strong, narrow surface current that flows rapidly away from the shore, returning the water carried landward by waves.

Welcome to the 70_th_ Hunger Games.

**chapter:**2/7

* * *

The train is rhythmic in the way the ocean isn't, and this realisation makes her smile. The ocean is unforgivable, unpredictable if one doesn't pay attention, calm and docile at moments, but in the blink of eye it can be a storm, drowning people and capsizing boats.

Not for the first time is Annie happy that she learnt the way of the oceans, over any other mode of transportation. It is untameable, rarely affected too deeply by humanity.

The train, the steel dragon which curls around mountains with smoke, is all human. It powers forward without hesitation, as if there is nothing to fear ahead that the train cannot handle.

Finnick Odair nudges her, telling her to pay attention to Zacharias, and she is. She wonders if he has never heard of multitasking.

'Annie, don't you like the train?' Zacharias asks her, and she can hear a touch of condescension; of course she does, it's a Capitol machine, and one of the best. How could she not like it?

'It is very fast and efficient.' She says, and she wonders if that what the Capitol, where everything is fast and efficient, but is there no time for leisure?

It doesn't make sense, because Finnick Odair who is from Fourth, from the south but spends more time in the Capitol, and reeks like scents that she does not fully know what they are is the picture of leisure. Sprawling out on the satin chairs, his head back and his shirt unbuttoned, like this trip is just a fun boat ride, not sending two children to the death.

Well, one child, her partner Reid Donner is fourteen with beautiful blue eyes. He refused volunteers, he is attempting to do what Finnick Odair did, the only person to do that in seventy years. He will die.

She's mourning him, this boy she never met, and she hopes his death is quick and painless. But logistically, no one under fifteen besides Finnick won. And the only reason he really won, was the trident.

She's not saying that Finnick did not deserve to win, but getting a weapon so much more powerful than the others, and used improperly-who throws something meant to spear? -changed the field completely.

Capitol wanted the beautiful boy as their winner, and they got it.

Reid is a charming child, but he does not yet hint at the handsome man he could grow into the way Finnick at fourteen did.

She knows how they will look, a boy eager to prove himself, and a waif of a girl drowning in whatever concoction of fabric they dress her in. They are no physical victors.

After Zacharias gives them their schedule, they're dismissed and she gets up, fingers trailing on the wooden trim, and explores.

She's surprised to hear Finnick Odair follow her.

'It's amazing isn't it?' He asks her, 'The Capitol has a lot of stuff like this.'

'It's predictable.' She says, not bothering to look at him. She is thinking; there are things to be done, things to prepare.

Papa's letters, all fourteen thousand two hundred and thirty five of them are in boxes under her bed, neatly labelled. She has been writing three times a day since she was five, and when the gravity of the games came to her.

Her research, she has made copies and buried them in the archives, so when she fails, her reasoning will not be seen as madness.

After all, this is just a hypothesis, she needs to test it out in the field, and the failure rate is ninety-nine percent.

'Predictable?'

She turns to face him, taking him in. He's Finnick Odair, tall, much taller than her with a defined jaw line and skin that is much darker than hers due to time in the sun-she burns horribly. Beautiful, like cut from marble and like marble statues completely dead of something that could make her see him as human.

'Yes. Listen.' It's silent, and they can hear the engine repeat effortlessly, constantly _chugga-chugga_, 'You always know what to expect.'

'But isn't that good?' He asks her, and it almost looks like a genuine emotion flickering in his eyes. 'Being predictable?'

She weighs each word in her answer thoroughly. 'There is comfort in predictability.' She says finally. He looks like he wants to press for more, and she stops him 'Why aren't you with Reid?'

'Mags is with him.' He answers, and she raises an eyebrow. Obviously, but she wants to know why he's with her. 'I was making sure you weren't go try to off yourself. Wouldn't be the first one ya know.' He wink, and she's struck with fury that he trivialize someone's death, or attempt of that.

'To die by my own terms is not a funny notion.' She tells coldly, turning away to find more of the train.

'I didn't-'Finnick's hand closes around her wrist and she doesn't jerk away, but she keeps walking, dragging him behind her, as if he's not there. 'You shouldn't _wan_t to die. No one should want to die.'

'But death on a train, by my own choice gives me the dignity rather than in the arena forcing someone else to kill me so they can live is so much better.' It escapes before she means to, her comment snide and sarcastic is meant for her own amusement in her head.

'Well you're alive longer.' Finnick says, planting his feet firmly and forcing her to stop. 'And isn't that the best?'

She rolls her eyes, her back still turned.

'Just prolonging the inevitable. Not everyone likes to be the center of attention.' She says, he still won't let go. She can't shake him off, even with the very bad combat training she has, he still has at least a foot on her and easily a hundred pounds.

She switches tactics, groping blindly for the one thing she can assuredly make any victor back off.

'Tell me about your games.' She says quietly, turning to look him in his eye. She's not surprised or shocked when there is some cocktail of unreadable emotions shifting in his eyes faster than she can progress.

She knows she has set him off; that this train and this environment would make the memories he has locked down deep resurface with a punch, and perhaps she would feel even a bit guilty for doing this to him, but she doesn't.

Finnick Odair makes her mad. He's fake, and he doesn't seem to care about anything, but something is making him tick in a way that doesn't make sense when she studied the other victors.

Every victor seems to have formed a shield around them, understandable. And that shield is permeated by regret, mourning, sadness and some sort of traumatic coping device. But Finnick Odair's shield is so thick she doesn't know if the fourteen year old boy exists at all, or if his body is just a shell that parrots words because his eyes are so empty.

No human should be like that.

She thinks his grip on her wrist has slacked, and so she pulls only for it to tighten, and for Finnick to look her back in the eyes, with something she would call anger to anyone else.

'Tell me about yours.' He challenges.

Her eyes narrow. 'We both know I'm not a victor.'

'If you think like that you're already dead.' He tells her, and his grip tightens.

She feels irritated, who is he to tell her how to think? He's a year older than her, but that doesn't mean anything. 'Thinking realistically is better than thinking I could win.'

There's an argument brewing, and she doesn't know either of them is so heated. He doesn't know her, and she'll be dead in two weeks; he's watched eight tributes die while he's supposed to keep them alive and countless more when they were just names on a screen. He should know by now not to get attached.

He's just ferrying them to their death, and comforting them with false hope that they could win and survive.

'Go talk to Reid.' She says, walking away from this argument. It's not doing them any good. 'He's the one who still thinks he can win.'

'But isn't it better to think realistically than give him some false hope?'

Her stride doesn't falter, though if she exhales sharper that is no indication that he notices. 'Give him some sort of comfort. He thinks he's going to be the next you.'

The door to the next carriage cuts off any retort he could have, and the sliding and locking click makes her feel relieved.

She breathes easier, and her heartbeat calms.

He is a fool.

The rest of the ride, she notices Finnick avoiding her, sticking to Reid. Mags pats her hand comforting and offers her more coffee.


	3. The Interviews

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: Me. I wanted this.  
**notes**: This is a bit longer than the other chapters, and I hope you like this. It's more development of Annie, and Annie and Finnick's relationship. It's also good foreshadowing how her partner's death will change her. Thank you for the favourites, follows, and for that amazing review. My tumblr is seevikifangirl

**title**: Rip Current  
**summary**:

rip current

_n._

A strong, narrow surface current that flows rapidly away from the shore, returning the water carried landward by waves.

Welcome to the 70_th_ Hunger Games.

**chapter:**3/7

* * *

There is a peculiar look in the Tributes eyes she's noticed. It's like a half light, gaunt in the unsaid, perhaps not realized morality they all have; and a hopefulness that they will be crowned victor victorious.

She knows there is that same look in her eyes, though she's resigned herself to death. She's seen it in Reid, and she hopes that hers in the only body they take back to Fourth foolishly.

'Isn't it astounding? 'Their escort thrills, leading them through the lobby of the building where they'll be staying.

Reid makes a noncommittal noise in confirmation, while Mags ignore the escort. Finnick is silent and she has the feeling he's not forgiven her for the train. It's silent in the elevator, and Annie wonders how her father is taking this.

Surely by now, he has found the letters. She wishes in the Arena she can leave a final message, but she hasn't a clue how2 she would do that, nor how long she will last.

On the train, she watched the Reapings with Mags. Finnick and Reid were somewhere else, and the older woman, their first Victor, murmured a running commentary on those who were reaped.

Volunteers from First, a girl with fair hair named Rosé and a boy named Hyde. They are careers in a different way than she is. They are taken from a young age, and go through military training, that is much more specialized than District Two.

District Two are volunteers as well, the top girl and boy graduating from their rigorous brutal training, Mags tells her. The male tribute is built like a tank, big, muscular and she has no reason to believe he couldn't strangle her with one hand; Mags said his name was Smith. The girl is sleek and slim like a wild cat, and she wonders if the girl is more dangerous than her district partner.

District Three aren't volunteers, nor are they careers though she assumes they probably have some form of training much like her own. They look slender, as if their exercise regime involves mostly cardio rather than weight training, and the boy looks like he can take several hits, and still stand. District three is known for thinking outside of the box, of being innovated and Tesla and Currie are not to be taken lightly just because of their limited physical prowess.

District Five's tributes are children; the girl is thirteen with blonde hair is crying the entire time. The boy is twelve and he vomited the second he was reaped.

'They aren't going to make it.' Mags had said sadly, clucking her tongue. She became making plans then, figuring that if she killed those two first, as humanely as she could it would save both of them from the bloodbath and from being tortured of hacked to death like the careers tended to do to the children who survived.

Annie's death was eminent, the least she could do was ensure quick ones to children.

District Six had two morphlings, the male eighteen called Exe is slim, and she can needle tracks up his arm, while his partner is sixteen and her teeth are yellow. She doesn't know how aware they are, and she wonders if the detox will kill them or the careers.

District Seven sent a girl only thirteen with braids and blue eyes. She looks sturdy, like she has survived harsh winters, but the boy is eighteen, tall and strong. He might be a contender.

District Eight had a pair of fourteen year olds, with matching grey eyes, and callouses on their hands from working in factories making fabrics. She's read about them, how children leave school before reaping age and work at the machines weaving fabric for hours. There are accidents there, lost limbs and dead children falling to machines. That could explain the fire in their eyes, but there is also a tiredness about them.

District Nine have a brother and sister; and the elder sister, seventeen looks ashen as she holds her crying twelve year old brother.

'They won't survive.' Mags said, watching the screen, 'Siblings never do.'

District Ten, Eleven and Twelve's tributes are all under sixteen, and all look gaunt as if food is scare. No one wins from District Twelve, and it is rare for the other two as well.

She has asked Mags if there were files of the tributes that she could get, and it seemed like an odd question that the woman had never been asked. She had nodded and said she would try her best, and when Annie had retired to her room, there are twenty-four pale brown file folders with complete biographies of all the fellow tributes.

She had sorted out her own, and had Reid's open reading it furiously, making jot notes of all his strengths and weaknesses.

He was born closer inland, about three hours from the coast, so while he is a strong swimmer, he isn't one of the best in Fourth, his family is in the net trade and is middle class, better than the fishers on the coast. He's strong with traps, and he favours his left hand. He's being trained with spear guns, and should be good with projectile weapons.

She is caught up in her lists and notes, going through with the finite dedication with all the other tributes, that she barely registers her door opening, and someone smelling more like coffee than sea air enter the threshold.

'You should get some sleep before prep tomorrow.' Finnick says, and she barely pauses not looking up comparing Reid's chances against the boy, Marcus Pine from District Seven.

'It doesn't matter,' She answers, not happy at his chances- Marcus seemed to have worked at a lumber camp for several years, causing very good upper arm strength, 'No one wants me to win anyway.'

'This doesn't look like someone who doesn't want to win.' Finnick says, crossing to sit on the edge of the bed. 'You're the first person Mags can think of who wanted to study the other tributes in depth.'

'I'm not going to win. 'Annie says, jotting down another few notes, trying to figure out how Reid could win. 'I'll be dead within three days. I just want Reid to last longer.'

'Why?' She feels his eyes on her, and it burns.

When she meets his gaze she can see emotions, like anger and upset flicker with impassive detachment. She's an oddity, perhaps his first tribute who's accepted their death so passively.

'He's fourteen.' She doesn't break eye contact, trying to figure him out. The incident on the train, makes her think there is more than just pond scum in his brain, and his anger at how readily she's given up intrigues her. 'No one wins at fourteen.'

'I did.'

'Did you?' He freezes, and she thinks it would acceptable to turn back to her notes and try to come up with a strategy; but she can't bring herself to look away.

Finnick Odair is beautiful, something she has always known. He wears his beauty like a weapon, self-confident in his ability to get what he wants by his own looks, but there's a hollowness to his eyes, as if he's never left the arena and he relives the horrors nightly.

He is breathtaking and she has this sudden desire to mar him, ruin him until he is plain like she is. No one should be beautiful when they're as stained crimson from the blood of children like he is.

'Victor is only two letters away from victim.' Annie murmurs, but even in her sotto voce it feels too loud. She can't hear him breathing, and she realizes she has went too far, saying something she cannot to someone she does not know.

'No.' Finnick says sharply, his voice thick with an emotion that she can't explain or understand and it makes every nerve in her body stand on edge. He stands abruptly, making his way to the door. He hovers there, as if there are words as hurtful as what she had said rest on the tip of his tongue, but instead he leaves.

She watches him go.

* * *

Prep is what she assumed it would be like, so many hands dyed different colours unnaturally poking and prodding her, taking hair off where she's sure won't be seen by anyone but her.

It's fashionable in the Fourth to shave body hair from the legs and the arms, to be faster in the water, something the prep team is grateful for by the whispers she overhears. Apparently no other district does that and there is a lot of wax used on other tributes.

Her nails are coated in opal paint, and her hair, already long enough to cover her breasts, gets longer to hit her waist. They curl and knot it unnaturally, taking away the frizz and making her look paler like china.

From what they tell her, she is meant to be Loreley. A mythical woman, from before who lured sailors to their death from her rock. People tried to take her away, and she called to the ocean to drown them all, and the waters swept her away, never to be seen again.

She's never heard of Loreley, the legends and myths she's finding out that the Capitol thing are ever present in District Four are things she's never heard of, and she doubts many people have, so she's not sure the off white dress made to look like she's drowned men with straps falling off her shoulders and the thick rope belting it under her breasts is an authentic image.

She does concede that she looks like a very stylish shipwreck victim.

Reid is shirtless and tanned unnaturally bronze; there is a seashell necklace and some odd tribal tattoos going across his arm. He looks too young for this, but perhaps that is what his style team is trying to sell. The man he could become if he wins the game. It's a fruitless attempt, by all calculations it will be Glessite, the girl from District Two who will win, Reid will make it to the top eight.

It's what they did to Finnick, but Finnick was nearing fifteen, while Reid turned fourteen four weeks before.

They look incoherent, and she knows that District Four will bring home no victor.

'Hold onto the sides.' Mags advises, as they walk to their chariot. Mags's cane is the only thing that makes a sound on the marble title floor. Finnick leads the way, not looking at any of them, his shoulders tight. He evidently has not forgotten or has forgiven what she said. 'Smile and wave. If you look terrified, they'll forget you.'

Everyone will forget them, Annie wants to say. But this time she holds her tongue. Finnick isn't her mentor, but it would do her more harm than good to cross a second victor from her home.

Reid is able to get in the open back chariot with ease, his low slung pants not making it hard for him to get up the three feet the chariolt platform is at.

Annie gathers her dress, long and ripped the off white silky material had picked up dust as she had made her way from the prep area to where all the tributes were waiting. The thick ropes crisscrossing around her ankles, keeping the soles of her sandals on her feet feel odd, and she stumbles.

Reid sees her nearly trip, and she's positive someone, probably from District One, is watching her. Reid offers his hand, but she's lifted from behind, large hands spanning her waist and there is more sugar than coffee than sea air engulfing her.

When she turns back, there are still large hands steadying her and Finnick Odair is looking at her, like she's never been looked at before. She forgets to breathe.

'Make people want you.' He tells her, and his tone is harsh though his words are civil. She flinches at the ice, but nods. He lets go and walks several steps away.

She keeps watching him, out of the corner of her eye, but she focusas her attention on Reid.

'Smile.' She tells him, offering him a hug, and that is when the chariots begin to move.

It is also how the Capitol gets their first glimpse of the District Four tributes. A boy, too young to be dressed the way he is trying to hold his smile on his face, and a girl drowning in white fabric holding him like he's her anchor with ghosts in her eyes.

The Capitol doesn't cheer for them; they mourn them instead.

* * *

Her interview is with Caesar Flickerman is one she is dreading. He's a particularly sharp man, skilled at weaving stories and gathering angles that paint tributes in different ways, often influencing who makes it to the top eight.

She hasn't the proof, but she is quite sure that the Capitol or at least the Gamemakers already have chosen the victor, and will do everything to ensure the winning.

That being said, Caesar Flickerman seems to be a kind man, if not one whom seems relatively ageless.

'Annie Cresta,' he rolls his tongue around her name, 'Annie Cresta. You look stunning.'

She's raised an eyebrow, because stunning in any definition of the word will never be used to define her. Not even the Capitol version of her. 'I think that's a matter of opinion, 'she says, 'but thank you.'

'Now Annie, how do you like your stay in the Capitol?'

'I haven't seen much, but it is very colourful.'

Caesar Flickerman nods understandingly, 'We do like our colour. And what, my dear girl, is your favourite part of the Capitol?'

She pauses and tilts her head, biting down on her lip as she considers her answer. She's dwelled very heavily on the negatives of the Capitol, but saying the negativities would surely just kill her off quicker, and she wouldn't be able to give Reid more time.

'I suppose…the unity the Capitol gives us.' Annie says thoughtfully, weighing each word carefully.

'How so?' Caesar leans in, like she's telling a big secret that only he's privy to hear.

'Districts become…closer during the Hunger Games,' she elaborates, 'And the sense of community is stronger. It's…nice.'

The crowd roars with approval, and she can see Mags nodding along in approval in the far right of her eye, nodding with approval.

'Oh my Annie Cresta,' Caesar Flickerman says softly, that it is almost not picked up by the microphone, 'what a surprising girl you are.'

She hasn't the idea how to answer it properly, so she ignores that; instead she twists her hands in the off white fabric until she loses circulation.

'One final question, dear girl.' Caesar says, his hands on hers, making her let go of the fabric. 'Tell me, how do you plan on winning the Hunger Games?'

He asks everyone this, and Annie has had her answer prepared for a few days know, ever since the reaping, just two words but her mouth runs dry when she tries to say them.

It's interesting to realize that knowing certain death is unavoidable, and accepting and planning on it, one can still be bone-chillingly petrified of it. Her mind falls into lists of all the things she has not done, and will never do because of the death sentence Panem.

She will never fall in love, she will never get married, she will never sail a boat as far as she can up the coast to see what exists beyond. The books she hasn't read are endless and growing every day. There is so much she has never done.

'I want my death to meaningful.' She says quietly, not answering the question properly but giving an answer all together.

She is not their victor.

* * *

Training is not fun. In a large monochrome arena, there are various stations that everyone runs to immediately.

District One and Two want to show off and intimidate, while other Districts work furiously to familiarise themselves with weapons that could change their survival from minutes to hour, to possibly even days.

Last night she had told Reid to look at projectile weapons, and she could see him take her advice at the way he familiarized himself at the station.

She can see, high above them the Gamemakers and other officials judging them. She floats from center to center observing the other tributes making notes in her head, but not touching any of the stations.

She knows her own skill level, and her training. In a fight, she can have the technique but not the strength or the speed. It will be rather one-sided.

The first night, Mags asks her what her plan is, if she's really just willing to die.

It catches her off guard; the old woman has thus far being non-vocal about the way she's gone about the Games, gathering the information requested, and providing tea and anecdotes of funny things when she was growing up at the beginning.

'I'm not the person who becomes the victor.' She tells Mags, handing around the hot mug, looking at the dark tea leaves float in the water before settling in the bottom. 'I'm the person they forget. '

'No one will forget you.' Mags says firmly, and Annie smiles, a proper one, though small, for the first time since her name was drawn.

'It's just a game.' She tells their first victor softly, remembering what she told her Father only a few days ago. 'People lose games all the time.'

_And games have rules_, her trainers voices echo around her like a symphony of cacophony, _even if the rules are unwritten Annie you still have to follow them. _

The assessment is not fun, it feels much like a test and which opened ended questions, are not really open ended at all.

They have to sit on the metal benches, waiting for their name to be called and then they have ten minutes to get assessed. This assessment will be key to survival rates. Luckily, they only have an hour to wait before Reid shaking slightly, has to leave the room.

There is no way of her knowing the scores he receives and his face is a blank slate when he exits. She figures the mortality rate has dawned on him during the night; and she hasn't had time to comfort him.

She doesn't know if comforting him is the right way to go, or if the harsh reality should embraced. She has never been relatively optimistic, preferring truth over well-meant lies to reassure a child. But what she prefers is not the same thing as what Reid prefers and she figures it might be easy to leave Reid to Finnick to sort out.

Though it might be more damaging; Finnick represents hope and a chance still to Reid. Annie isn't cruel to take that hope away from him.

When she is escorted in, all the Gamemakers are having a feast in a lit area several feet away from where's she supposed to demonstrate something.

There are weapons laid out and she goes over to look at them. There are swords and knives, arrows and even a spear that looks an awful lot like a trident. There are also some broken blades and weapons in the corner, as if during someone's demonstration their pure force hacking one of the dummies apart broke a sword. Or three from the remains.

She bets it is Smith.

No one is really heeding her attention as she takes a slender piece of broken blade, with serrated edges in an uneven patterned due to its splinters and slips it up the long sleeve of her rather drab training uniform.

She has to impress them, but a clicking of the tongues makes her hurry to grab a hunting knife and show how poorly she throws.

It falls short of the dummy, by several feet and she can already feel bored disappointment in their eyes.

'Is that all Miss Cresta?' The head Gamemaker dressed in purple with a large plume of red hair calls, swirling wine in a crystal flute.

'I-'

All games have rules, but are unwritten rules really rules?

Annie walks to them and they pay her no mind. It's not until the shard of the broken blade she took earlier is in her fist, cutting lines into skin by how hard she's gripping it is embedded in the table beside the head Gamemaker's fist, do they stop their idle conversation and look at her.

They hadn't deemed her a threat, until she was beside them, the blade an inch deep into mahogany wood and her green eyes piercing into them.

'That is all.' She says politely. 'Thank you.'

She lets go of the blade and exits quickly.


End file.
